Forward.

I am going to clean my room
full of anger and clothes
of useless things
of a past that cannot anymore be ignored.
Of letters on a secret love
and of photographs of elusive yesterdays
that were painstakingly collected
but now must be thrown away.

I can't live on yesterdays anymore.
So from now on
from now on

Survival.

Scene: One, just one, comfortably ensconced on a couch somewhere in the rigidly arranged apartments of DHA. Every window is blocked by walls of neighboring fancy houses, eliminating any wisps of weighed-down breeze. The air conditioner is switched on, the doors and drapes drawn tightly shut.

Scenario: He switches off the TV, the phone, the radio. Closes his mind, puts on some 50s music.
Maybe puffs a smoke or two and reclines. Smiles a little, even. No guns, no bombs. Nothing is real. That assignment is due tomorrow.

Seen:
An inner voice cackles. Who're you trying to kid?

His heart jumps into his throat; his stomach bolts down. A bead of sweat trickles down his pallid face.

Keep breathing. Tomorrow is important.

Keep breathing.